Knight in Shining Volvo
by anonymous kristin
Summary: When Patrick is in trouble, this time, it will be Kat who saves him.


The room was getting dimmer by the second. Lines were blurring, and he could here a quiet, steady buzzing in the background.

_She doesn't love me. _He thought, slamming the empty shot glass onto the disgusting bar counter.

_She doesn't love me._

His eyelids fluttered and the dingy bar was slowing morphing into black.

_Kat doesn't love me._

I don't know why I acted the way I did. If I could take it all back, I'm sure I would. He probably just wouldn't accept it.

I sit on my bed, hugging my pillow tightly to my chest, my vintage red phone placed close to my feet.

He isn't going to call. What am I thinking? Of course he isn't going to call, after what I said to him…

A groan escapes my lips, and I roll over onto my side, still clutching the pillow. Why did I say that to him?

My fuzzy-sock clad foot finds the phone and with one swift motion pushes it off the bed. I feel an overwhelming pang of regret as the metal hit the floor with a defining clash. I almost miss the ring.

This is totally new to me. I have never been to the county jail before. The walls are white tile, and a sleepy night cop was stationed at the desk in the front room.

"Hi." I awkwardly move closer to the man, peering curiously at his half open eyes. I cross my arms firmly across my chest, and suddenly realize how stupid it was to wear my pajamas to jail. "I'm picking somebody up…?" My statement sounds like a question, and the guard nods.

"State your name, their name, and you're your relationship to the convict."

"Kat Stratford." I say, watching his hands slowly misspell my last name on his clipboard. "I'm picking up Patrick Verona."

Relationship? How do I categorize "He called me at 12:30 PM from the country jail to ask me to pick him up because he was arrested for knocking out a bouncer at a bar?"

"I'm his girlfriend."

About 16 minutes and one drunken swagger to my car later, Patrick Verona is buckled into my ancient Volvo, and we are on our way back to my (thankfully, empty) house.

His head has slumped over so that his chin is touching his chest, and I suspect he is asleep.

All the better really, I think. The conversation would have been even more awkward.

I focus intently on the road, dodging the occasional squirrel, and watching Patrick's head bob out of the corner of my eye with every swerve.

I am soon faced with a new dilemma. How am I going to get him out of the car?

I have learned after a couple half-assed pokes and prods that he is not asleep, and in fact, out cold.

I try and wiggle my arm behind his back and drag him forward, but he is as heavy as I imagined. I blush to myself. Not that I have actually imagined him lying on top of my or anything.

I manage to wrap his arm around me, and hoist him out of the car, nearly avoiding being crushed under around 200 pounds of muscle. I can tell from his bicep around my neck. His feet drag against the concrete walkway, as I struggle to get him up the stairs.

I flick on the lights and shut the front door with my foot.

The neighbors must have had a nice show.

The stairs to my upstairs bedroom will be even more difficult.

Patrick Verona is lying on my bed. Patrick Verona is lying on my bed, passed out in a drunken stupor, wearing clothes that reek of dingy bar.

I can only think of my father's comfy old man sweats that I love to borrow when I'm feeling down. And how they would probably fit Patrick.

Within moments, I have fished out the biggest pair of sweat pants I can find along with an OB-GYN tee-shirt he got from a medical conference.

Getting them on him is going to be the hart part.

Tenderly, I reach my fingers under the hem on his heather grey Henley. I jump as my fingers brush against his cool stomach.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I work the shirt up until it's wedged under his armpits, trying to hard not to touch his skin at all. Or look at him.

Because at this very moment, lying on my bed, Patrick Verona in unconscious, and wearing half a shirt. Because I am in the process of taking it off.

His skin is soft and pale, and his sculpted abs are not helping my…concentration.

It's upsetting how hard I'm finding it not to rake my fingers down his stomach.

I position his arms so that they're stretched above his head, and proceed with the undressing. My fingers brush against his sculpted pecks and I shiver. Crap.

I pull the white tee-shirt over his arms, awkwardly sticking his bulging biceps into the arm holes. My fingers trail down his sides as I straighten out the body of the tee and I'm sure I hear him let a sigh.

Which would be impossible, seeing as he is unconscious.

The tee-shirt is on. Now for the hard part.

I never fully appreciated how tight Patrick's pants were until I tried to take them off. I resist the urge to undo his belt buckle with my teeth, and gingerly, I unzip his dark wash jeans. Sigh. His boxers are blue and green plaid.

Traditional. I like it.

I slip the sweat pants on, and pull him by the shoulders so that he is more conventionally propped up against my pillows. I bring his dirty clothes to out laundry room and start a load. I actually spritz some of my perfume into the frothy water, so that they will smell like me when he puts them on in the morning. I have it bad.

I grab a bottle of aspirin, for both of us, and a tall glass of water for Patrick when he wakes up.

When I come back upstairs, Patrick has slipped put of his seated position, and is actually curled up in a ball, holding the same pillow I clutched earlier that night.

I hide a smile eve though nobody is watching.

The red cushion is pressed to his face, and I know that when he leaves, I will be curled up in the very spot, with that very pillow glued to my nose until I have smelled every last trace of him.

My desk chair is rolled up right beside my…his… bedside.

I press a cold and damp towel to his forehead, then gently dabbing at a nasty cut on his high cheekbone. Brushing back his unruly curls, I pretended I'm not enjoying this.

Not the fact that Patrick is hurt, but that fact that I get to take care of him.

Absentmindedly, I stroke his firm forearm, my fingertips tingling with every fleeting contact.

He murmurs in his sleep, and is breathing deeply. It makes my eyes droop, and I suddenly realize how uncomfortable the chair I am sitting in is.

He awoke and the smell of raspberries and mint filled blurred his senses and nearly lulled him back to sleep.

His head was pounding and the slightest chirp of a bird outside the unfamiliar window sounded like a high-pitched whistle blowing in his ear.

Sleep was what he needed.

But the head of luscious chocolate brown hair kept him occupied.

His arm has snaked its way around her waist, and his thumb has dipped under the hem of her tank top, and is touching the soft skin of her stomach.

The walls of the foreign room are plastered with old newspaper clippings, and pictures, with stacks of books congregated on any and every surface.

On top of one pile is The Feminine Mystique.

He knows exactly whose room this was.

What he doesn't know was hoe he got there. But that doesn't matter.

He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

I would like to say that I am half asleep or something, but I can't. I am perfectly awake. And I am smelling him. And our bodies are pressed up together, his arms are wrapped around me and pulling our bodies closer together. It feels like a fire burning between my thighs.

Its heaven and hell.

But I think I love it.

My eyes are closed when I hear his chuckle, and they way he moves as he laughs makes me smile, because he is pressed up against me.

I can feel him leaning in, burying his nose in my hair, inhaling deeply. I hear the smile on his face. His large hand softly rubbing my back beneath my thin tank. He thinks I'm asleep.

"Good morning" I say to him. He tenses up, and I turn around, so that my face is inches from his.

I have no idea where this sense of security came from, this cheerfulness. Maybe being this close to Patrick Verona has some strange effects on me.

His hand recoils quickly, leaving a handprint of heat on the small of my back.

"Where are my clothes?" He asks, sternly. I am shocked. The tenderness I was obviously not supposed to feel is gone.

"In the washer."

He gets up, running his fingers through his adorably tousled hair, letting out a dark laugh. "What the hell am I doing here Kat?" gesturing wildly to the surroundings. "Why the hell am I here?"

"Patrick, I-" I sit up, realizing how ridiculous this situation is. He raises his eyebrows- but not in the cute way I'm so used to. He is angry.

"Kat! I completely opened up to you. I told you how you felt." He covers his eyes with his large hand, brushing his curls away again. "And you told me that you didn't feel the same way. You told me to get out of your life. And now I have no idea how I got into your room, in your bed, sleeping like we just fucked each other and I don't remember a thing!"

I feel the anger welling within my chest. My voice is stone cold. "I was your one phone call. From jail." His face falls. "You called me at 1:27 in the morning, and asked if I could pick you up FROM JAIL.

"You beat up a fucking bouncer. You knocked him unconscious. And now you owe me 400 dollars for you bail money."

He does not show me what he's feeling. He is a rock.

"I'm sorry."

I don't say anything.

"I'm sorry I'm such a burden. I'll just get out now." He starts towards the window. And I can tell that he is upset.

I would be too.

Which is why I call after him. And then mentally kick myself in the ass for being such a wus.

"Wait." I reach out my hand, as I am actually going to touch him, grab the familiar tee-shirt that I might never wash again. "What happened to the Patrick that was there when you didn't know I was awake?" I am groping in the dark here, willing my words to touch some part of him. I need to get some kind of reaction. "Where did that tenderness go?"

He is unable to speak.

"I told you to get out of my house earlier because I was scared. I was scared that you were screwing with me. I was scared tat you would show up on your bike the next morning with another blond bombshell and tell me 'Sucks that you fell for my act last night!'"

He takes a step forward. I can't tell if that is a good sign.

"Is that what you thought?" His deep voice rumbles in depths of my chest. I hate that he does that to me. He takes another step closer. "Is that really what you thought?" His face is twisted into something between pain and fear, and love. I think. "That's really what you thought?" He is closer now.

I can tell that I'm about 3 repetitions from my breathing stopping.

"That's really what you thought I would do to you?" He covers about 6 normal steps in 1 long stride, and our chests bump and my heart stops.

He wraps his arms around me and I feel safe and silly.

"Because I don't think that I would ever do that to you." He whispers into my hair.

I smile. We stand like that for a while, my breasts squished up against his solid chest, his warm arms forming a cage around me.

"And now what I'd really like to know is how you managed to control yourself while you took off my clothes."

I want to hit him. With my lips.

"Let me tell you, Verona. It wasn't easy."

He smirks at me, leaning in until his smile is all I can see.

And then it's gone. And I close my eyes. And he's kissing me. And it's pretty damn amazing.

His lips taste like he smells, woodsy, like autumn, and gasoline. He's so much softer than I imagined.

His hands are firm on my back, rubbing up and down, occasionally sneaking under the hem of my shirt. He smiles into the kiss as I shiver at his touch.

"You like that?" He teases.

"More than I care to tell you."

And with my last comment, his hands rise up and in one swift moment my shirt is off and he's exploring his newly conquered territory.

I let out a vulnerable sigh, even though it's the last thing I feel. I feel safe.

Slowly, awkwardly, we back up to the bed which now smells like pine and rain and faintly of exhaust, and he lies me down, hovering just over me and trying to swallow my tongue.

We break apart. And I take a breath that it feels like I've needed for 17 years now. I press my lips to his quickly, once more, and he grins a genuine grin.

"Think that was worth 400 dollars?" He asks, and I playfully hit him in the chest.

"I think so."

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That's it! It's my first one, so be nice. I was really sick of all the "Kat is rescued from near rape/death by Patrick Verona on his white motorcycle/horse," stories so I turned it around. Reviews please!!


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